


Five times Patty hugs Ellen

by Doccutroll



Category: Damages
Genre: F/F, Just sayin', Patty Hewes does not approve of this, read at your own peril
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25804480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doccutroll/pseuds/Doccutroll
Summary: Pretty sure Patty has been spelling 'hug' as 'ugh' ever since she knew how to write.
Relationships: Patty Hewes/Ellen Parsons
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get back into writing again and planning a long(er) fic for these two lesbian lawyers. Meantime, am doing short chapters like these to keep it up when work and real life are killing me. 
> 
> Chapters are in no particular order.
> 
> Feedback and comments most welcome!

“Do you want to fuck me too?”

From corpses to complete destruction of towns, there is very little Patty hasn’t seen. Right now, however, she can only stand at the door, mouth half-opened, staring at her protégé.

“Ellen, what – ?”

“You heard me,” Ellen’s words are slurred, but somehow clear. As always, the girl’s a contradiction: her eyes are glazed over and her shoulder is hunched, but she moves with purpose and determination, just like how she’s stepping towards Patty now.

Having only just settled down on the couch, Patty’s senses haven’t yet been dulled by bourbon. It means she can smell the alcohol that’s _seeping_ off Ellen’s pores. It also means she picks up the sharp enunciation when Ellen whispers “Let’s fuck” into her ear.

Not wanting the doormen and reception to see more on the CCTV than they should — not that Ellen is a stranger, but it _is_ one in the morning after all — she pulls the other woman into the apartment.

She’s grateful for Ellen’s compliance as she nudges her to the couch, until Ellen pulls her down with a strength Patty didn’t think she had. Lips, sloppy, wet, and everywhere, smothers hers whenever she opens her mouth to protest. They taste as if Ellen had only had her last drop before she knocked on Patty’s door.

“Ell – Ellen, wait,” she says.

“Why?”

“Wh—what do you mean wh—,” she moans when Ellen sucks on a particular spot on her neck.

“It’s okay,” Ellen says. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. At least I’m still good for something, right?”

The words sink in and she takes a few second to fight the haze. Extricating herself from Ellen, she pants: “Jesus, what happened after our meeting this morning —”

Her blood runs cold. “Ellen, you didn’t confront Frobisher, did you?”

Ellen’s laugh only adds to her concern. She holds the brunette’s hand and gives it a light shake.

“I didn’t,” Ellen finally responds, her eyes on the ceiling, unfocused. “But I know it’s him.”

“How?”

“Wes told me,” Ellen says, looking around at anywhere but her. “Wes, who went to my fucking grief counselling sessions, who I…who…was working for Rick Messer, who was working for Frobisher.”

“Wes…?” Patty’s still trying to piece the puzzle together when Ellen grabs the full glass of bourbon she left on the table. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what, Patty?” Ellen fends off her hand and finishes the bourbon in one swallow. “Don’t talk to anyone anymore? Don’t be such an easy mark?”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” she huffs, grabbing the glass.

“It’s fine, Patty,” Ellen drawls. “I should be used to it by now. Even you wanted me only because of Katie, right?”

“I — ”

“Had me followed, tracking my move and everything,” Ellen’s slurring her words again, but she’s managed to sit up, closing in on Patty. “What am I saying, you probably already know about Wes.”

It’s those lips again. They’re more insistent this round, nibbling her jaw, a tongue goes around her ear and oh god she _wants_ to give in.

“Probably have photos of us fucking, too,” Ellen breathes hotly, her hands everywhere. “Tell me, what position did you like best? On my knees, at your service?”

“Ellen, _no_.” She pushes the girl away more forcefully than she means to. By the time she’s gathered herself and pours a glass of water, Ellen’s back to staring at the ceiling.

“You don’t want me too,” Ellen says softly.

More than anything, she wants to show her how much she actually does. Instead, she hands Ellen the water, only to be ignored.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re fine, Ellen. You’ll be alright.”

“All that stuff you said to me about your daughter, and if she were around — it’s all bullshit, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’d probably try to pawn me off on someone else when you got tired of me too,” Ellen mutters. Patty doesn’t think she’s in this conversation anymore. “Just like the Parsons did.”

“They what?”

“Don’t be so surprised,” Ellen smiles sardonically. “I found out about this the day you told me to get out of your life.”

From micro-expressions to mitigation strategies of her enemies, Patty has learned to read and predict everything. Her killer instincts are so well developed that most times, she slips into autopilot, like riding a bicycle. But ever since Michael grew up, her protective instincts haven’t been tested — until now.

She moves to catch Ellen in a tight hold. This time, it’s Ellen who resists.

“You didn’t want me,” Ellen tries to push her away, but she won’t let go.

“I’m sorry — I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was saying.” she means every word of her apology, wishing she could take back even what she said to Tom. That she would even think about alienating the girl just because she thought she got sloppy or disobeyed her.

She doesn’t let go.

Not even when her shoulder is soaked and fingernail imprints form on her skin.

“I wasn’t trying to get close to Gates,” Ellen sobs.

“I know,” Patty says calmly, tightening her hold.

“I’m not — _not_ a parasite,” Ellen is close to wailing now, struggling to get her words out. At this, Patty loosens her arms and moves them to cup Ellen’s face, encouraging the brunette to open her eyes.

“You are not a parasite,” she reaffirms.

“I wasn’t using you,” Ellen pleads, and for as long as she lives, Patty swears that anyone who makes Ellen beg like this will rue the day, herself included.

“I know.”

They rock back and forth until Ellen falls asleep. And as she continues to rub soothing circles on her back, Patty decides that unless Ellen chooses to leave — her arms, the apartment, her life, she will no longer let her go.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought the whole point of this fic is that it would be short why am I like this.

Life is different when you let someone in. Boundaries to be negotiated. Compromises made.

And at where she is, Patty did not expect to go through this again. But it is what it is, and she wouldn’t exchange it for anything else.

So she trades pieces of her life. Candles with bibs, jewelry with Legos, and paintings with crayon scrawls.

While she’s prepared to give up even her practice if Catherine needs it, there _is_ one thing she might have to wrestle from her granddaughter’s grip. Since she moved to New York, music has served as a salve to drown out the harsh sounds of the city, and to soothe the incessant noise in her mind. Trips to the record store on her way home are a treat. Or more accurately, _were_ – her last visit was so long ago that the owner called last week to find out if she was okay.

She would be – _if_ she doesn’t have to listen to Baby Shark in the apartment. Or in the car. Or from the singing toys. 

Or ever again. 

When Catherine played it for the thirtieth time one night, she seriously considered suing whoever who thought it was a good idea to commercialize it. And hearing similar complaints from parents at the preschool, she knows she stands a good chance of winning.

But all the money in the world can’t force the song back into campfires, so she sticks to the second thing she does best: buying gifts.

One so big it needed to be delivered from the store, and is _sure_ to distract Catherine.

She hopes.

It should have arrived in the afternoon, but she’s still uncertain if it is enough to buy her two hours of truce. Bracing herself, she turns her key in trepidation.

Genius. She is a genius. 

_Catherine_ _Hewes_ is a genius. 

She steps in, wanting to witness her granddaughter, music prodigy, at work. 

_Oh._

Her steps alert the occupants of the Hewes Household, both of whom look back at her with wide grins.

"Grandma, look!" Catherine waves while banging her other hand on the keys. 

Perhaps music isn't Catherine's talent, then. She sighs and smiles, removing her heels.

"Trip cut short?" She leans down to let Catherine plant a big one on her cheek, and exchanges a softer one with Ellen. 

"Hmm." Ellen nods, stealing a few more kisses. "Witness ran off. But look who I found!" 

Catherine giggles and turns to escape the pretend-tickles.

"I didn't know you played the piano," Patty remarks, setting her bags down. 

"I don't – it was a long time ago," Ellen says. "I barely remember anything."

“Play that song again, Ellen!” Catherine tugs on her lover’s sleeve, and Ellen obliges. For the rest of the evening, Patty stands by them, watching her granddaughter’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Maybe she can live with the shark attack for just a little longer.

\----------

"So," Ellen pants, moving up Patty's body. 

"So," Patty echoes, catching her breath. 

"What spurred on the _grand_ purchase?" Ellen resumes her kisses on Patty’s chest, as if to catch up on all the ones she’s missed since Tuesday.

“Nothing,” Patty hums. She isn’t about to admit her extreme measures of desperation. It’s bad enough that Ellen still teases her about the Chanel purse.

“You, however –” she pauses to catch Ellen’s lips. “Never told me about your talent.”

Ellen laughs. “ _The Entertainer_ at beginner’s level hardly qualifies as talent.”

“Still,” Patty says. “Where did you learn to play?”

“We used to go to this lady in the neighborhood,” Ellen says, reaching over her to dim the lights. “Mom said she never had the chance to learn. She was so proud when we finally owned one – she must have taken a hundred pictures of us that day.”

“Did little Ellen have pigtails too?” Patty teases.

Ellen retaliates by nipping Patty’s shoulder, eliciting a yelp. “No, I did not.”

“It’s still sweet,” Patty sighs when Ellen soothes the bite with her tongue.

“Well, not-so-little Ellen wants to make sweet music of another kind,” the younger woman says as she nudges Patty onto her stomach, causing a trail of goosebumps along her spine with her lips. “Wanna join me?”

“Oh god, stop with the music metaphors already.”

“But don’t you want to find out how well I can play _other_ instruments?” Ellen says, moving her tongue downwards.

Patty groans.

\----------

_“At the vet’s._

_Back before lunch – P”_

Ellen yawns, lifting the post-it note from the nightstand. The floral notes of Patty’s perfume lingers in the room, so they couldn’t have left that long ago. She’s surprised Catherine didn’t wake her up – not that the child is ever rowdy; in fact, she’s so quiet that the adults are used to seeking her out.

The bed tempts her with a snooze, and her body wages a war with her mind. More and more, she’s feeling the effect of late nights -- something Patty doesn’t seem to have a problem with. They’ve stopped evading questions about their relationship, and she’s nearly gotten used to jokes about keeping Patty young (from her friends, of course. Patty’s simply wouldn’t _dare_ ).

If they only knew.

Opting for food instead, she trudges down the stairs. It takes her a moment to realize why Corey hadn’t come to beg for scraps, and she resolves to wind up work early this week. A vacation with everyone would do wonders when the case winds up; she just needs to steer Patty gently towards the idea. The other woman still has issues with Ellen picking up the bill at meals, let alone let her organize _and_ pay for a trip.

She wonders who would win the battle of the radio if they went on a road trip: Patty’s classics, Corey’s barking, Catherine’s Disney soundtrack, or her own playlist. All of which are missing from the apartment right now.

_Is it a blue moon tonight?_

The phone rings, the intrusive sound startling her.

_“Patty Hewes. Leave a message.”_

The other person hangs up, and she shakes her head at Patty’s straightforward, no-frills style. Every time it’s played, the urge to add Catherine to the voice recording grows stronger.

_You’ve reached the Hewes: Patty, Catherine, and Corey…_

Now _she_ feels like the intruder in the apartment.

She looks around for a distraction, and finds it in Steinway. She instantly misses the smaller pair of hands beside hers on the keys, as well as her little shadow on the bench.

She starts slow, testing her memory of sharps and flats as she practices her scales. She remembers more than she thought she did; it seems that Mrs Brock taught her really well. 

Poor Mrs Brock, who had to cajole her — and probably hundreds of other children — to keep playing after they had moved on to other interests. There were times when she didn’t even play anything; she was too busy crying at the teacher’s dining table about boys who broke her heart. To Mrs Brock’s credit, Mrs Parsons never heard about any of it. 

She smiles at herself while she flips through a stack of sheets. 

_“You play differently after heartbreaks; better. You’ll thank them for it someday.”_

Patty’s being over ambitious as usual: the material far exceeds Catherine’s ability, and the contemporary ones are closer to what her generation likes rather than the child’s. Curious on whether Mrs Brock’s advice holds true, she tries a few pieces that look familiar. 

And the further she ventures into the past, the faster time seems to move forward. Before she knows it, Catherine is making a beeline for her, smelling of the outdoors and sunshine. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Patty apologizes, struggling with Corey and a handful of bags. Her cheeks are rosy, she’s slightly out of breath, and she’s a perfect picture of vitality. 

It’s almost too much for Ellen. And yet, she wants to stay in this moment forever. Pack their suitcases and run. Quit everything. 

She helps Patty with the takeout instead. 

“We passed by the music store and I couldn’t resist,” Patty explains, popping a grape into her mouth. “I hope you’re in the mood for _Tarantula_ for the next few weeks.”

She steals one from Patty’s hand, narrowly escaping a smack. “I thought you had already gotten some songbooks.”

“I didn’t – they’re Michael’s. I found them when I threw out the keyboard.”

Right.

Michael. Who now exists only in a photo, next to Catherine’s, in Patty’s office.

Patty’s media skills are unbeatable – polarizing opinions and all – so she doesn’t understand her aversion of being in photos. The older woman does relent when Catherine begs, but unfortunately, funny faces aren’t quite appropriate for the workplace. The only one that passed muster for Ellen’s desk is a semi-decent one she sneaked on her phone; one of the precious few she’s saved on multiple devices and cloud accounts.

She wonders whether there will be a place for hers on Patty’s desk, too.

\----------

“Patty?”

“Hmm?” Patty’s engrossed in her magazine, checking out the latest home designs. 

“What’s our song?”

“What song?”

“ _Our_ song,” she keeps her tone casual, pretending to be focused on moisturizing.

Patty looks up now, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone has a song, right? Like you and Phil.”

They’ve never talked about her ex-husband, not even on _that_ night, since the separation. Ellen’s relieved that Patty’s not annoyed. In fact, the other woman seems to be pondering her question. 

“I don’t think we did.” 

“What? What did you dance to at your wedding?”

“Oh I can’t remember. It was such a long time ago.”

“Well,” she stammers, but charges ahead. “What about your first husband?” 

Patty removes her glasses and peers at her. “What about him?”

“Did you have one? A song?”

“God, I was maybe 20,” Patty says. “What is this about?”

“Nothing,” she lies, placing her head on the older woman’s lap as she returns to the magazine. 

“Patty?”

“Yes?” The blonde drawls.

“Nevermind.”

Patty raises an eyebrow at her, but doesn’t push her. 

_What should we play for our first dance?_

_Wouldn’t it be funny to see the men quake when they hear “Parsons-Hewes”?_

_Who will be the only woman you’ve ever loved?_

Neither does she.

\----------

She was right. 

Baby sharks are no match for grand pianos after all. She hasn’t regained control of the sound system, but how could it compare to watching Catherine gradually grow out of her shell?

What she didn’t take into account — a great bonus at that — is Ellen’s affinity for it. 

‘Live’ music has taken over the apartment. The children’s tunes from Catherine, and the more classical ones from Ellen. She hears the wrong keys, the hesitant fingers. Catherine covers up the mistakes by speeding through the notes that follow, while Ellen stops and patiently tries again. 

They play together often, but Catherine’s sheet music is quickly overtaking Ellen’s: naturally, the child wants to play everything she hears and likes, and she wants to play it now.

Ellen, however, is content with exploring and taking her time with longer pieces. 

\----------

_Shit._

She totally forgot she promised Catherine they would practice together. 

She sighs, resting her head on the cool metal of the elevator. The investigator finally found the witness last night, and she left her dinner half-eaten to get on the red eye. 

Patty had asked her to stay overnight – _just charge it to my account_ , but it’s pointless: she doubts she’s going to get any rest away from home. Plus, she forgot to pack a charger for her phone, and couldn’t find it in any of the shops in the small town. 

Maybe she’ll take the day off tomorrow. Maybe she’ll retire and convince Patty to join her. 

Maybe Catherine is still up, and she unlocks the door quickly.

And nearly laughs. 

Both the Hewes ladies are on the bench. Judging by Patty’s clumsy attempts, and the loud proclamations of “No, grandma!” from Catherine, she knows her lover’s patience and humor are soon reaching an end. 

She takes over, barely suppressing a giggle when Patty mutters “Thank god”. 

The child is in a playful mood, and they mess around until the other woman returns from the kitchen. 

“Ellen hasn’t had her dinner.” Patty looks pointedly at her as she leads Catherine upstairs, all too familiar with her eating habits. “And it’s bedtime.”

She groans, preferring a very generous serving of alcohol instead. 

She finishes the food anyway, mouthing a silent thanks to Patty for clearing her dishes. Their first glass of bourbon is accompanied by the clinking of cutlery and the hum of the dishwasher.

Before she could top up their drinks, however, Patty removes the bottle from Ellen’s reach.

“Play something for me.”

“ _Now_?” Ellen asks. 

Patty nods. 

Deciding that protesting or resisting would take up more energy than obliging, she heads to the instrument. But Patty can definitely forget about getting any tonight, and she _will_ sleep in tomorrow, work be damned.

Wait.

Those weren’t there an hour ago – a framed photo of her as a child playing the piano (no pigtails), and one of her and Catherine sitting where she is now.

The sharpness of the image couldn’t have been captured by Patty’s phone – or hers, but all she remembers of that moment is the song they were trying out.

She looks up at the other woman, who’s simply smiling at her and sipping from her glass.

And so she plays.

Despite her exhaustion and slight inebriation, it flows. It’s smooth, even when she pauses for a second to lean into the hug from behind – one that lasts throughout the piece.

It’s perfect.


End file.
